


The Lesser of Evils

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Canon Divergence, Capture, Death, F/M, First Blade, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, King of Hell Reader, Knight of Hell, Mark of Cain, Post-Mark of Cain, Slow Burn, Special TW for giving up the fight, Torture, demon, man-feels, terrible title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Crowley has a plan.  How cute.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Bev’s Song Challenge and I chose AC/DC’s Back in Black. I’m sorry @chaos-and-the-calm67 the prologue got away on me. And then it kicked my arse.

Sam curses himself for being so smart.

In less than three breaths he reads the layout, set up, and instinctively knows there isn’t much he can do.  But it won’t keep him from talking, or from saying all the things that ought to be said when his turn comes.

Sam stands against a pole, hands cuffed behind it, free to sit, kick, dance, talk, turn away, anything but walk free.

Dean is strapped tight to a board wired to a bag trolley, five or so yards away, upright and out cold.  His head is slumped forward and Sam can only see his fringe and the crescent of his cheek bone.

Crowley stands between them both, with his back to Sam, calm and focused on you.

And you.  When Sam looks longer, around Crowley who obstructs you somewhat, he can see that you are in bad shape.  

The edges of the room are so dark it’s hard to see the walls, although scrap boxes and broken bed frames are clear.  The floor was once a pale colour - cream, maybe green - now scratched and grimy, with patches worn to dirt-water grey.  Some sort of hospital facility, Sam reasons. But the lighting above them - downlights so bright that reflections conquer shadow - it makes things so white it’s like a crossover in space, where Sam’s reality is absent and this heaven-bright bubble has him trapped.

For a while the only sound is Sam’s breathing, pushing through him and picking up speed.  His gut muscles tremble and he swallows and shifts his feet to feel real and level.  The hood was removed, gag following, but the moment of outburst has past.  Now, since he has the allowance to speak, he feels like his words have to be right, as though things may pivot on him.  But they won’t.

“Crowley-” he begins, then loses his thought because you lift your head. You hadn’t known he was there before, and Sam gapes, realising you’re awake and that your eyes are now as open as they can be, one of them anyway.

Looking up to see Sam makes everything creak - your neck bones, your throat, tight muscles around your ears that won’t let go, and the corners of your working eye pull as you look at him so clean and full of energy.  You have no depth perception, and focusing is hard work.   _Poor Sam_ , you think, _he’ll feel bad._

Sam starts again, and goes for simplicity.  “Crowley, what have you done?”

You don’t have anything prepared for Sam - you feel badly too, for having brought him and Dean to this point - so you let your sight settle on Crowley and wait for him to speak.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Crowley says.  “I didn’t mean for them to go this far.”

_Lies._

“It’s been three weeks, in case you were attempting to count,” he says, in his most casual manner.  “Have you been able to count?”

Trying to make the words come out, you work your throat and grunt, test your tongue, protect your broken lips and jaw.  “Sle-p.”

“Yes.” Crowley nods solemnly.  “I wasn’t specific enough with the torture.  I’m sorry.  Rest should’ve been part of the program.”

“What the hell are you torturing her for, Crowley?” Sam demands urgently.  “What’s going on?”

Crowley strolls the few steps to Dean, and Sam feels himself wind up at the full view of you:  weeks of beatings, holes stabbed in your shirt, stains over stains, a swollen knee in your crooked leg.  You’re draped against a y-shaped frame, a stout piece of pole at the junction for you to sit upon, your armpits resting on the hooks of its arms.  The knuckles of your bare toes rest on the floor, rusty in the webbing where the blood has dried again.  There are at least four colours in your face and there’s blood caked everywhere.  Everywhere.  Sam’s chin quivers, he tastes metal and blinks hard to ground himself again.  He feels too far away.

Crowley takes Dean’s jaw between his forefinger and thumb, and tilts his face towards you.  “Bit of a failed experiment, that… should’ve known better than to think I could control him. I mean, who controls Dean Winchester, right?”  He lets Dean’s face drop again, and looks at him long enough for you to get annoyed, protective even, and your fist clenches on its own.

 _I have something left,_ you realise.  

“Well, with leverage,” Crowley adds, and turns back to you.  “But if a Knight of Hell doesn’t care about anything, there’s no bloody lever.” He shrugs, flapping his long jacket open by the pockets.  

“With you, however, it’ll be a whole different situation.”

“Crowley!” Sam snaps.  “You leave her the fuck alone.  You want someone, take me-”

“Oh, I’m not touching you,” Crowley throws over his shoulder, smirking at you like Sam’s gone dotty.  “Wouldn’t touch Lucifer’s betrothed in a blind fit.”  

He comes close enough for his fragrance to benevolently cloud over your rotten state. He looks at you patiently, respectfully, and calmly.

“The thing is, Y/N, you’re too smart for me to play games and arse around, so let me give you this.” He talks like he’s sorry for his bad news. “I can take away the suffering.”

“Crowley!” Sam barks, deep and annoyed.  “You can’t give her anything! You’re a liar and a bastard.  Deal with me-”

Crowley waits for the volume to drop but doesn’t care what Sam says.  His quiet voice cuts through the noise when he’s this close.  “You’re in pain, I know.  I brought it.  And before you try to scowl at me, let me remind you that millions of people go through worse every day.  You’re still alive, you’re breathing, you’ll heal,” - he looks at your swollen knee straining the denim, the darkened fingers - “mostly.  But I needed you to know what suffering is really like. You _need_ to know.”

Tiredness drops over you like a wet sheet.  You’re angry, furious, with these words, and instantly exhausted by them.

“Notice how you can’t think? How the sleep deprivation trips your sentences?  How everything feels encased in molten plastic set hard?  I know it hurts, Y/N, I’ve been there, and you needed to be there too.”  

_Where are the sweethearts? No darlings, no buttercup…_

“I can take that away,” Crowley repeats.

“We all can,” Sam growls, “but only you would’ve brought it in the first place.  Let her go so we can heal her ourselves.”  Sam knows this line of argument doesn’t even belong here.  He just doesn’t know what else to say.

“Dean suffers too, as you know,” says Crowley, gesturing Dean’s way.  “He carries the Mark still, and it tortures him.  You know.”

“Crowley,” Sam warning tone suggests he has an idea of what’s coming.  “Crowley, shut the fuck up.”

“I can take that away too,” says the King of Hell.

With a gesture, Crowley has two lackeys shift Dean so he’s beside you, on your right, and facing the opposite direction, barely half a foot away.  You could smell him, too, if your stench wasn’t so dominating.

Looking at Dean means you can’t help but see Sam too, all the way over there, swallowing down panic, slack-lipped and leaning, trying to think of what to say.

Crowley’s hands are warm and gentle, but when he unhooks your arm from the post, you still cry out at the change, cracked ribs grating, skin protesting and muscles gone solid.  You have more voice than you thought and suddenly tears too.  You pant and waves of dizziness sway you.You try to use your swollen, crusty tongue and swallow again.

Crowley collects Dean’s arm and places the warm wrist in your hand, using his own fingers to wrap Dean’s hand around your forearm.  The heat of it feels unnatural, angry, and heavy, and you realise your right arm is bruised and cut, but otherwise still strong.  Or it is now.

“N- Nh-” You can hear your tongue scratch against your hard palate.  “‘m not- Nh-”

“Crowley, leave her alone!” Sam calls.  “Let her go.” He starts to pull on his own arms.

Crowley shifts behind Dean a little, placing himself between you and Sam and locking your line of sight.  Sam starts saying whatever he can think of, racing to mount an argument against what’s going on.  “Don’t listen to him, Y/N.  Just listen to my voice, okay? We’re gonna get you out of here-”

Crowley watches you pitifully lick your own tears for the moisture.  You wish you could pour yourself out of your body, for the relief, some sort of peace, so you wouldn’t have to listen to your nerves scream against the breaks and holes.

“I can give this to you,” Crowley says smoothly, making like you’re equals.  “You know it’s a burden.  You know what it is, but you have to take it.  You have to _want_ it.”

“Nh-” you cough, twitch your head no, and keep the nausea at bay while you feign strength.  You speak as firmly as you can with your half breaths, but struggle to wring the words out of your dented mouth. “I don’- Dean wwouldn’t let-h me have it.  I wron’t.”

“I know he wouldn’t,” Crowley says. “Bastard never looks after himself.”

You want to scowl.  Dean’s martyrdom is hardly a secret, but Crowley doesn’t _know_ Dean.

“-you know Crowley’s a liar Y/N.” Sam’s voice echoes around you.  “He’s _never said anything_ that doesn’t serve his own purpose.  Say no, Y/N, to anything.  Just turn him down.  Any-”

“I don’t think Sam realises what I’m offering you here,” Crowley says in confidence, and Sam’s voice slips into the background again.  “Let me be clear.  I think you’re a better candidate for the Mark and here is why.”  He lets go of Dean’s arm, but you hold on just to feel his life.  You rub and tap your thumb over his skin, squeezing to wake him, but he doesn’t move.

“We need Dean as Dean.  Wouldn’t you agree?”  Crowley’s close enough that you can smell his breath, whiskeyed, with mint behind it, and cologne that’s annoyingly tasteful.  “He’s an important player in the scheme of things, literally, but dangerous with the Mark, and downright lethal as a demon.  And these boys… they’re not thinking straight with him like this.  The Mark needs management, but Dean isn’t at his best right now.”

“Crow-ey,” you slur.  You just want him to shut up.  You want his voice and ideas out of your mind. You want the pain in your head to stop.  They feel the same.

“You know, I don’t need to tell you-” He holds his hands up. “You know him better.”

You shift your body, seeking relief everywhere, tired of holding yourself up.  You notice how quiet it’s been in your head recently, all your mantras have run dry: your _Just keep fighting_ fell numb weeks ago; _You’ll get through this_ barely echoes; _Be patient be patient_ has run its last loop. And now the timbre of Sam’s voice has become like running water, constant and bubbling, a drink you can’t reach.

“Soon, sweetheart.  It’ll be over soon,” he lays a warm palm over your cheek, gentle and cruel in contrast, and you tilt away from it.  You haven’t been able to turn your head for a while.

“Don’t you fucking touch her Crowley!” Sam shouts, a burst in the filibuster effort that seems to be all he can do. “Get your _god damned hands_ offa her! I swear to God-”

Crowley continues with patience. “So you could take the Mark-”

“I can’t.  Dean… doesn’ think… I’mwworthy,” you tell him, puffing from the work of speech.

“Of course he does,” Crowley reasons.  “He wouldn’t hunt with someone who wasn’t worthy.”

“Nnot an heir… not ‘n the line.”

“Oh but you are,” Crowley says and, even with one not-good eye, you can see him stifle a smug smirk. He shrugs, covering with “There are thousands of you. Consider it though, you can fuck fate and be in control, free Dean of this load.”

You know there’s no controlling the Mark.  You feel like there’s something you’ve forgotten, like you’ve dropped your brain and you can’t collect it all well enough for the thoughts to connect.

“But, hunting,” you say, then grimace at yourself.  You’re arguing.  Never argue with a demon, you’ve said, reject the set-up.  But you’re tired. You want time.  “I’ll die an’-”

“And you’ll have the King of Hell in your pocket,” he stands back a little and opens his arms, presenting himself, then clasps them again below his belly.  “If it comes to that - Heaven forbid - you know I have a soft spot for you, Y/N.  It’ll be apples, as they say.”

You look down at Dean’s arm, the Mark seeming to shine, and you squeeze again to rouse him, but there’s still no sign.  He’s big, yet still so vulnerable like this.  You wonder how many minions were spent catching Sam and Dean.  Somehow they were both caught, nabbed and controlled by Crowley’s demons, who no doubt were told to do “everything but” to you.  He sent six for you, and you took down two of them before they finally beat you to distraction and carried you away, the dark concrete scrolling by below as you tried to fight panic and be brave. Probably took twelve or so for the boys…

Your body jolts awake, suggesting time has passed, but no one’s looking at you any differently.  You know Crowley’s playing you, you know it, but you can’t see a way out other than doing what he wants.  You can’t think.

Slowly you register that Sam has started talking to you again - “Look at me Y/N, come on sweetheart, just look at me, you’re okay, we’re gonna get you better and get him back-”

You don’t miss the wavering in his voice, the desperation.  He doesn’t have a plan.

“Please, Y/N, just stay strong.  Don’t take anything.  Don’t change anything.  Just let me talk to Crowley, send him over here-”

Crowley gets between you again and Sam’s voice rises a few tones, demanding attention, but Crowley lets it go because he’s quite close now, the warmth of him fragrant, masculine and becoming oppressive while you feel so incapacitated.  It wafts a smell away and when it returns, you recognise it now, is not the room but you, rancid and festering.  You close your eyes, weary with disgust, as he talks at you again, again.

“The only way you’re leaving here alive is with that Mark, Y/N.”  He’s trying not to bite his words, but he means it, venomous and petulant.  “Either they leave as is and you die here, or all three of you leave with the Mark on _your_ arm.”

You replay the words in your head. He stands back and lets you look at Sam.  Something in you makes Sam pause, puff, stand up straight like he can change tack and try again, but he’s tried nearly everything and he stutters all over in his search for the clever words that will work.  “What’s he want?” Sam’s question falls out of him, barely getting halfway across the room.

Me.  Maybe you said it.  Sam seems to know somehow.  His feet start up again, arms engaging against the restraints, and now he fights.  “No, Y/N.   _No. Don’t_ give it to him. Don’t- Don’t give up!  Don’t give him you!”  The words beat out of his chest, thrown at you, and he says everything he can think of.  “Please, Y/N, we love you.  You’re family-”

 _Not really_ , your brain dumbly replies.  You look down at Dean’s arm in your hand and Sam finally sees what the deal is.

“-no you don’t know.   _You don’t know_ , Y/N, how often I’ve had to cheer him up because you went off with someone else and he couldn’t make a move.  He loves you, Y/N.  Dean loves you, more than he knows what to do with.  He would never, _never_ give this to you.  He _doesn’t want_ this.  He’ll be furious, and heartbroken.  Please, Y/N, just- trust me, you just say the word and he’ll show you how much he cares.  Don’t do this. Don’t do _this_.”

Crowley stands on your left, waiting, hands clasped.  He’s let Sam talk all this time, you realise, because all those arguments will be tabled and beaten, right now, forever, and at the end you’ll still be deciding whether your death will achieve anything.  Once Crowley kills you, what’s next? Kill Sam? Dean would finish Crowley once and for all… But he thinks killing you wouldn’t get the same reaction, apparently.  Maybe Sam’s wrong about your importance.

That’s when you see the traps on Dean’s bonds and realise that maybe he doesn’t mean to let Dean loose either, maybe ever… maybe he just wants to try this deal first.

Crowley watches you think, and gives a condolence.  “It’s the lesser of two evils, wouldn’t you say?”

At some point, Sam has let something go.  He’s just pleading now, calling. “Y/N, come on.  Look at me.  Come on, please look at me.  Please don’t… Y/N.”

Your face lifts up to him, and he shines with hope, his voice even quieter now.  “Come on, Y/N… I love you too.”

 _Yeah you do…  I’m so lucky._  “Me too Sahm.”

You think for a moment he might cry, but he’s distracted by the red glow near your waist.  The Mark has felt your acceptance, and knows Dean would call you worthy, if it were a finite question, and in Dean’s mental absence, it begins to transfer itself to a more willing host.

It’s hot and angry and protective.  It wants you, wants you better, and even though the transfer feels like a branding iron dragged up your veins, like your hand may burst into flames and your boiling bones will cook your flesh, even as the tears flow down a jaw you can’t clench, everything starts to feel slightly better.  Not fixed, not healed, but easier.

The Mark licks itself along your skin, making you whimper at the pain and Sam morosely groans “No, Y/N… Y/N,” as he watches what he can’t stop.

Then it’s there, complete, and Dean is free.  He looks better already.

Pride beats in you.  I’ve helped!  I’ve made a real difference to him.  It kicks through your chest and makes you smirk with righteousness, your breath surging to manage it, all the boldness.  Then it morphs into anger and you know, right then, this is your baseline from here on.  

You look at Crowley, let him see.  He raises an eyebrow in observation.  “Feel better?”

He’s so calm.  Warning creeps up your neck.

Sam is silent, waiting, nodding slightly with his brow like _We can still fix this Y/N, don’t worry._

“Now, you know, sweetheart,” Crowley says, sauntering back your way, “or you should know at least, your weaknesses.  Dean is one, obviously.  And then there’s this.”

Crowley pulls the First Blade from his pocket, presenting it reverently, and you start to hyperventilate a little.  You’re terrified of it and the new feeling that washes over you - from ears to heels - a possessiveness like you’ve never known; and of being possessed. The blade has you already.

“You said I would leave here alive if I took the Mark,” you remind him, your words stronger. You’re able to sit taller now.  You let Dean’s arm go, unconscious of your hand clawing at emptiness while you lean towards the ancient bone.

“Trust me, Y/N, when this is done, you’re going to see just how beneficial the situation is,” he assures you.

“Crowley!” Sam barks.

Crowley snaps his fingers and Sam yelps, crumples, as his thigh takes a bend to it.  He slips down to the ground, face crushed in agony, and pants through the pain.

“I can fix that.” Crowley points limply at his work.  “But let’s fix you first.”

Sam’s voice breaks as he shouts your name and Crowley, all at once, bites his lip, steps forward and smoothly thrusts the blade into your chest, bone grinding against bone as it’s pushed up behind your sternum and into your heart.  It feels like a pain that comes last.

His exhilaration blows down your neck with a sated hum and you slump, gape in surprise and lean your cheek against his padded shoulder and the soft Italian wool.  Sam calls you again, gazing at you dreadfully, pained and miserable.  He closes his eyes and turns his head away with a sob.

Dean’s hand crushes your arm.  He’s woken and snatched at you, eyes stuck on the blade - once his blade - buried in your chest under Crowley’s hand.  He looks lost and stricken.

“Y/N,” he rasps. His breath catches sharply when he sees the Mark on your skin.  “Please. No.”

The wound hurts incandescently, tastes of bile and intrusion, a grotesque thickness where it doesn’t belong.  There’s a cold trickling over your scalp, down your neck and chest.  Then everything seems heavy, like you’re at the bottom of the ocean, and your surprise begins to fade away. You can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t talk, can’t hear, can’t tell Dean you’re sorry, or tell Sam he’s good. You’re done.

You are actually done.

.

Crowley tilts your body back against the frame, props you there and tests your lifeless neck.  He removes the blade, wincing as the teeth of it catch on your breastbone.

He spares a glance for Dean, his lips twitching curiously at the heaving chest and gaunt loss. “You’re free.  Back to your garden variety man.”

Dean gapes at his audacity, wide eyes piercing as he works up to some scalding speech, knuckles popping to manage the shake.  

“Let’s see if she still thinks you’re worth saving,” Crowley quips.

“Don’t you _**GOD DAMNED-”**_

Crowley puts the blade in your hand and holds it there.

They watch and wait.

Crowley trusts it’ll only take time for the Mark to feel it’s staff, but he leans in to murmur in your ear anyway, and talks potential.

“Just think of it Y/N.  You a Knight of Hell, me it’s King.  The power we could wield over the underworld.  You have no idea how glorious it is, Y/N, to have something this sweet running through your veins.  I can only imagine the power you’ll feel with this.  Let me show you how it’s done.  I’ll make you a Jedi.”

Dean stares, petrified, nauseated, and says nothing.  His eyes sting from the air, and the chill on his skin is menthol-cold.  He can hear Sam pant and even without voice it has a frantic pitch.

Thoughtlessly, his gaze settles on your fingers, looking through the dumb grip they have on the blade, what was once his.  Not just his as in mine, but his as in carried and us.  He can’t tell if he’s sad for it, misses it, or if he’s terrified of the unknown that comes with it in someone else’s possession.  

He doesn’t think about it when it happens, but he’s sure he saw movement, because his eyes snap to your face.

And he was right, he did.  The slow curl of your grip had begun.  It’ll get tighter.  Stronger.  Stronger than it’s ever been.  As the fingers shift home, the muscles engage and the chain reaction of it travels up your arm.  Across your body the bones and breaks shift back to where they belong with dull, sickening knocks and pops, and your chest begins to move again.

Dean shuts his gaze on your hand, not right yet perfect on the handle. He’s terrified of seeing you wake, and hears his heart stumble hysterically over the loss of you. His skin seems to shift against the board just from the blood churning through him, and he wishes that he could be so much farther away from you for this.  His ears are thundering with alarm.  He remembers the apathy and indifference, and fears for his life.

Strangely, hearing is what comes back to you first.  A chord of all notes, from inside you, from beneath your feet.  You straighten your head to see if it changes, and it seems to settle into the background.

When you open you eyes, the first thing you see is Crowley.

You are angry, for one.

Crowley is the last person you want to see first.  Besides being a perennial pain in the arse, he’s simply not worthy, no matter his role, and now you have to watch him smirk with pride, fill his chest and lift his chin.

The blade in your hand feels like you. No texture between you, no difference in temperature or mass.  It’s where your arm is longer, and where your full stops wait.  You watch your fingers shift and tilt it, the handle slotting back into place each time, nuzzling for purpose.

And then, like the blade, you notice how you feel nothing much elsewhere.  Not the concrete-heavy pain you remember from recently, before (already).  You don’t care.

Everything is back where it should be, plus a layer of putrid filth.  You smell like earth, waste, and metal, like an animal, and the strangely satisfying musk of blood and fear.  You recognise it as your own, but it’s something you’ll be rid of soon and for now you like the contrast of old and improved.

You look at Sam and you hear his breath catch.  You concentrate and blink again, and he swallows, the colour coming back to you both.

But, you flick them back to black because you’ve noticed the filter they have. You can see the fear and hope radiating from him, floating up with his heat.  The air thrums where his leg is broken and you wonder if you can-

“Gah! Uh! Fuck!” He thrashes his legs, now both straight.

_Huh._

He hazards a small smile of thanks, but you don’t reply in any way.  You’re distracted by his shine and you decide that must be his soul.

Crowley’s soul isn’t apparent.  His eyes are red, his true form grotesque.  It makes the air seethe around him.  He makes you seethe too.

“How is it sweetheart?” He murmurs.  “Nice, yes?”

You slip off the frame and stand, easily and fluently.  All of you is activated and strong.  Sam gets onto his knees, hesitantly hopeful.  Dean has opened his eyes, watching your body, not your face. He still hasn’t moved.

You flick away the filter, which is easier this time, just an on-off blink, and wait for Crowley to do his thing, which doesn’t take long because a salesman knows his cues.

“You feel stronger, right?” He steps toward you, hands still in pockets because he’s so confident of your relationship.  “This power? What you’ve got? It’s unique.  Some of the sweetest juice in the land… It suits you.” He thinks he’s charming.

Crowley licks his lips and keeps on.  “I don’t mind tellin’ you Y/N, all those times you smirked at me, those little twinkles I got, I’ll admit-” shrug, “- I mighta dreamt of you and me, you know… kickin’ heads.”

_Your shiny shoes don’t kick heads._

He changes tack, appealing to your strength, and finally offers his big, big package.  “But I am the King of Hell, Y/N.  And now you’re it’s Knight.  The last one.  Lucifer’s in the cage, and it’ll be you and me who keep a lid on the chaos beneath this pathetic crust of life.” He steps forward, hands free, so that you’re face to face with barely a foot between you.  “Waddya say, Y/N? Shall I tell you about my plan?”

You roll your tongue around in your mouth and glance over at Dean, his head still hung low.

“Crowley,” you say, clear and deliberate.

He lifts his chin a little, sets his jaw.  You might take more convincing than pleases him.

“You talk,” you say, as though this is all he does.

He pouts and resettles his stance. “We all gotta play our strengths, sweetheart.”  He says it differently now; maybe he hadn’t respected you enough before.

“Yes we do,” you agree.  

You step forward, wrap a hand around the back of his neck and catch a flicker of what could be regret.  “Go ahead King,” you sneer, and shove the blade into his chest. “Tell me about your fuckin’ plan.”

He gapes and deflates. His blood flows, coating your newly minted hand and mingling with what was left of your own on the blade.  The power of the act hums between you so nicely, purely, and you stop to feel it nourish you.  You fill your lungs, slow and strong, but it’s not the air that invigorates you; it’s the earth and all that that it holds and pulls.

When the shine has left his eyes, you pull your weapon free and watch him tumble.

It’s like you’ve added a new tone to the way you vibrate, a sinister note that thrums like an anthem. You close your eyes and taste satisfaction.

Hot pleasure flashes up your arm, heightening, justified, makes you blow your breath and lick your lips.  You hadn’t realised how hungry you were, how thirsty, and now you’re not.

You step back and reach for Dean’s board.  Considering how easy it was to slip that bone into Crowley’s body, you’re curious to know whether you’re much stronger than before.  Turning the framework that’s got Dean trapped only takes a push, and you can break the bonds on his other hand with a twist of your fingers.

“Y/N.” Sam’s voice is tentative but brave, because of course he must try.  “Y/N, we can-”

Your gaze stops him.  He knows you don’t care, but he swallows deep and says it again because he must also hope.  “We can heal you.”

“I’m not sick Sam.”

Dean looks at your chest, now smooth and perfect and covered in your human blood.

He knows you’re not who you were, and that who you were isn’t even there enough to miss her.  He knows.  All of it.

His soul crackles, a familiar smell to it, still frayed from losing the mark and rattled at losing you.  You want, _want_ , to run your hands over his, pull him against you and breathe in the most familiar thing your body knows, that this condition knows. You thought you’d known desire before, but with this… you are stronger now, everything is stronger.

He looks like he’s trying to not be sad and instead deal with the new thing in front of him as the practical problem it is, but he’s lost you. His Y/N that was never his.

He doesn’t know you know.  He loved you, as you were, said Sam.  And now he knows you as you are.

The longer you look at him the more his fear grows.  You don’t need him afraid.

You leave them to their own escape, the minions having taken flight once they realized Crowley was dead.

You know you’ll see them again, not least of all because someone needs to manage that throne.  You’ll sort some shit out, get your bearings first, and then visit them.  You’ll find Dean and broker some sort of relationship.  The Winchesters are a necessary element, you suspect, and it’s becoming clear in whatever your soul is now; ex-Y/N or not, Knight of Hell or not, you still want what you want.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's ideas didn't work out like he hoped. Now you need to make plans of your own.

For a month - in Hell days - you skulk around the underworld, exploring and poking.  You watch tortures, kick through cell blocks, through realms of personal and shared hells, get lost, get found, kind of take a tour…  But every time some uppity asshole plonks their cheeks on that throne you drop by, gave them as much of a chance as you can withstand, then end their reign.

Initially, you think you’re waiting for a King you can tolerate.  Crowley had crossed you so many times you’re twice shy anyway, but none of them present as anything but arrogant and violent.  (Not that you’re much different right now.  And what else would you find in a King of Hell anyway? But that’s beside the point.)  Not to mention the fundamental problem they have would with an ex-hunter Knight, cherry picked by the old King himself, who wouldn’t bow, with affectionate links to the Winchesters…  it’s controversial, to say the least.

Three claimants responded with an iron fist style of management, which you promptly snapped off.  Another had tried to win you over with platitudes and, well, sex.  

The last, the one that broke the dam, attempted to capture you, bind you, and imprison you until Hell’s strongest killing tool was needed.  And they took your blade.  That was where your tour ended.  Somewhere in the event, you learned an attempt on the Winchesters’ lives was planned in conjunction with your capture.  That was also when you learned that, as sublime as it was to take a soul with the First Blade, bare hands were damn satisfying too.

You let the blood drip from your skin - elegant crimson evening gloves of wrath - so they can see how it is you walked free and out of Hell, barefoot and still wearing the clothes Crowley killed you in, with the First Blade in your hand.

…

Ten hours after your making, Sam and Dean are pretending they aren’t shivering in forest mulch by an old function centre.  They’re waiting longer than usual on a demon hunt, because nothing is usual right now.  The last 24 hours has seen demon activity flaring up all over the place, random and flitting.  Before you and Crowley killed each other, Alan Blume, another hunter, had already left messages on Sam’s phone about rumours of Crowley using your name, referring to “a new pup”, during your last weeks.

Afterwards they drove the 6 hours to meet Blume as soon as Dean could focus. He spent the drive mentally analysing any demon-themed notes from the last month, and put a lot of stock in what Alan had to say, no matter how vague the tip-off.  Sam still finds all of it inconclusive and concerning, but he hopes too.  They bounced ideas and texted questions to the old hunter, no apparent plan revealing itself, and then Blume stopped answering.  

So here they are, waiting.

This time they’re not sure of the numbers, so have lain in wait outside the centre trying to count door slams and voices, before shouldering their way inside.  Weapons ready, they sidle through an archway and into a corridor, meaning to sneak a peak, except that your voice cuts through the space.

Sam sees Dean freeze, rocking forward in shock before pushing back against the wall.  Sam leans with him, shoulder to shoulder, and listens.

There’s grumbling hubbub from what seems to be a proper group of demons. “You’re a goddamned slut,” says one.  “Wet for a fucking hunter. Look at you. First time top side and you’re here defending his peachy ass.”

Boots shuffle on concrete as the crowd settles, and silence falls.  

“What, nothing?” says another.  “No come back.  We heard you were the funny one.”

“I’m not wasting wit on you.  You’re going to die.”   _Obviously_.

The tendons in Dean’s throat flash when he hears your voice again, real and just like at breakfast.  It’s the same, and stained in such a familiar way.

Dean didn’t get a look at the configuration, but he can tell it’s your lone voice against theirs.

“Siluther will raze you,” someone warns. “You’re meddling and out of place. You need to find him and kneel for mercy.”

“You mean Siluther who fancies himself next for the throne?” you check.

“He has it,” the demon says. “I saw him on it. And he’ll have you heel soon enough.”

“ _Most_ of him is on it,” you inform him.  “I dropped his head down a crevasse.”

The air seems to tighten and Dean looks at Sam while they wait.

“So you think you know how to use that thing?” someone asks.

Silent response again.

“You against a dozen,” they say.  “It make you delusional too?”

“Matthew, I’m going to try patience.” You carve out the words with threat, and the demon swallows at the sound of his own name.  “I can be fair.  I know you’ve booked your evening, and sworn yourself to the prettiest wanker you ever met, but I’m just going to remind you: I killed the King.  And I killed the five hopefuls that followed.  Right now, there’s no one down there to kneel to.  There’s only me.  Are you sure you want to try this?”

Sam and Dean can see each other buzz with tension, watch their chests rise and fall too fast.  They know that tone and it used to make them feel taller and righteous, triumphant even.  Now they don’t even know which way it bends.

There’s a curious _Hhnn_ , a short _Aah-!_ of attack, then fabric shifting, thumping, shoes scuffling, and within 3 seconds the familiar _Uh!_ and squelch of someone stabbed.  There’s another two, at least, and the brothers can hear you work, your breath moving against the effort without strain or trouble.

The demons start to shuffle, make noises of frustration, and group up to beat you.

Dean closes his eyes, listening to you take thud after thud, and winces as your chuckle reaches him.

“You fuckin’ think you can take 12 little girl?” the first one bites.  “You’re not even a real demon.”

Your laughter, interrupted by violent smacks, bounces around the space.  There’s a break in the rhythm, some fighting, wrestling, a solid _oomph…_ then puffing.

“You jealous?” you ask.  “Crowley could’ve picked anyone for this, but not you?”

“Only to get at the Winchesters,” one sniffs.

“A killer is a killer,” you say, as casual as ever.  Dean is realising how stupid it was to think you’d want to see them, and he starting to wonder whether you’ll want them there at all, let alone be considering in a cure.  “Did Crowley even know your name?”

Sounds of attack echo again, short and conclusive.  Your voice breaks out more, grunts of satisfaction and dominance.  Then there’re just two sets of footsteps.

“Did you miss out on your 15 minutes?” you ask him, barely affected by the fight so far.  “Well, you’ve lasted the longest, that’s not nothing.  Tell me your name sweetpea, I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re scary.”

“The name’s Randall,” he growls.  “And that blade is going in my back pocket.”

“If by back pocket you mean lung, then yeah, you can have it.”

Randall lunges, and there are short sharp smacks before he yelps in surprise.  “Your wish is granted Randel.  The new King of Hell knows your name.”

Dean closes his eyes and thuds his head back on the wall.  The blade in his hands shimmers uselessly in his unsteady hold.  He’s scared of you and aches for you, all at once.

It could’ve been any number of things that gave away their presence, but still you move so you can see them and there they are, Sam’s big shoes and Dean’s long jeans, just inside the corridor.  

From the slack spread of his ankles on the floor, Dean’s lost.   His breathing is tight and nervous like his brother’s.  You figure it’s been barely half a day since you saw them, and wonder if he knows what Sam told you.  He’ll be piling on the guilt, all afresh with the Mark lifted, wishing what he felt was enough to cure you on it’s own.  There’s a chance, too, that he’s ready to kill you on sight, but he’s still on the ground so… 

They’re right there, your old friend and ever-love.  He’s been in the back of your mind since you became a demon, and even though you knew very quickly that you couldn’t navigate your world by What Would Dean Winchester Say, you’re still extremely curious about his opinion, or if he even cares.

Instantly you have a flash, a memory or a wish, to feel his breath warm your cheek as he stands close and quiet.  It morphs into not just breath but his low voice, a pleading sound, short and bitten, with his lips against your jaw, his living skin and anchored focus, wanting anything, then lifting his chin and exposing the muscle so you can have him.  Maybe he’d give himself over, offering endlessly unhealthy ways of making amends.  Maybe he’d be an angry mourner and fuck you both into resignation.  He’s right there…

Your soft, steady footsteps approach and he and Sam consider standing, bracing themselves, but it’s only your shadow that appears in the corridor.  You realise then that you look, literally, like all kinds of death and think better of it.  You can wait.

“You two should be more careful.”

Your voice, closer than Dean ever hoped to hear again, almost chokes him.

They hold their weapons tight and listen to you pad away. Dean pushes his tongue into the roof of his mouth to keep from breaking.

…

The souls you pass duck and bow, because they’ve seen or heard of what you’ve done already.  They’ve been waiting for you to take your seat.

You walk the full length, from gate to throne, and let them watch you.

With a wave of your hand, you swipe the throne clean and add a few crimson-glass lamps to the walls.  You can’t be bothered changing things right now: it’s all good enough.  The seat is cold and hard and feels right for you. Heavy. Permanent.

As you rest there, hooking your death-dirty fingertips over the ends of the armrests, you give some attention to the power you’ve ignored since you shoved your blade through Crowley’s chest.  You have more power than you’ve acknowledged and you acquired it when you kicked his crown.  But before you can think of how to really test your royalties, you’re distracted by a sound.  It’s a distant tinkle, a _chink-chink-chink_ of small chains, coming closer, and then the scratch of claws on stone along with it.

Momentarily, the hellhounds appear in the corridor, through the doorway opposite you, panting, dripping, and seeking you out.  The biggest is front and centre, so massive it has to bend to turn through the door.  They have death-grey skin that writhes, short black hair, and look built to spike fear so terrible that one’s time in hell starts _now_.

Slowly the leader pads it’s way to you, the others ambling alongside like a delinquent gang.  You look the hound in the eye, watch it approach as it takes you in, and have a vague recollection of Crowley once referring to his ‘pup’.  It’s taller than a black bear, neck and shoulder muscles peaking high behind it’s ears, with a head you couldn’t get your hands around if you tried.

Patiently you watch it sniff around your knees and crotch, then your hands, still flecked with the crusted blood of ambitious demons and, at the back of it, on your cuffs and shirt, their last master, Crowley.

You reach past it’s muzzle, to it’s collar and help yourself to the tag.   _Juliet_.  She huffs at you, her inspection complete.

“Don’t worry Juliet,” you assure her, “we have the same itchy spots.”

She leans into your touch, growling in submission to the throne.  She feels satisfied with your strength and place and, after a few moments of petting and cooing, seems quite content with you.

This time it only takes a blink.  Your dead-hunter clothes are gone, replaced by a simple strapless leather top, jeans and boots (a little height won’t hurt), and Juliet pads over to the right of your throne, lying languidly on the stone as the other hounds take their turn to meet you.

…

During the next week, three hunter friends send Dean word that they might’ve seen you topside, but they’re so vague and inconclusive, and so far away, that each report only earns a half bottle of whiskey gone.  

The fourth report, however, is reachable, and the description is actually passable so Dean drives 5 hours to corner a demon.  He walks in the door of the diner and she doesn’t even hide the recognition, just backs away down the counter and leaves.  Dean finds the back lot empty, not even a discarded uniform.  He drives home without a break.

On the dark and unlit highways, Dean struggles to see straight.  It shouldn’t be hard.  He’s driven tired, scared, angry, even drunk, and the lane lines are clear and faithful.  But his nights have been full of bad dreams and they hijack his mind during the night-time monotony.  

He bullied Sam into describing what he missed, and under a few shots of persuasion, he had to content himself with watching his brother sniffle through a miserable recount.  Sam has turned the script over and over so many times he’s not confident of what he did or didn’t say, except that it was all for nothing, or close as.  All your injuries, all your exhaustion and anguish, Dean doesn’t get to drag his heart through that part, because he didn’t see it.  Just you, wet and crusted with your own blood, and strong as ever, your black eyes haunting the edge of his vision.

Sam only hopes that you’ll bring yourself in, because you’ll be hard to get to in hell, or maybe they can send word or even trap you or maybe blah blah blah Dean glares at Sam like he should’ve done better. His shitty mind gnashes _If you’d loved her as much as I do_ , but he says nothing because Sam is greyer than ever.  He saw the Devil’s traps on his own bindings and what that implied; he knows your tenacity, and he knows what that treatment can do to a person, too.  And he knows there’s no limit to Crowley’s buggery.  So…

In his room, when he’s drunk enough and he thinks his eyes are closed, he lets his mind go and pretends it’s sleep.  After a while it is, but the dream doesn’t come in visions so much as moods and tones.  There’s a long, leaning ache, like you’re moaning low for hours on end, and his hands swim for you, empty of your warmth.   _I gave, I saved,_ he hears, and he feels his own _Why?_ and _Shouldn’t’ve_ , and a wordless thought like _I’ll never give you up Y/N_.  Slowly, parts of you slide through his hands, indifferent and perfect, and his fingers run down your cheeks and jaw, cupping, daring to hold.  He sighs your name like you should’ve known better and that, right there, is the nightmare part, that he can’t keep himself from scolding you. As if you did anything but your best.  Usually you open your black eyes and stare at him, sometimes calling him for the cure, other times flaunting his failure, and sometimes you even snarl and bite.  He can’t back away and can’t turn it off.  It’s a lingering spectre, slowly embedding itself in his vision, until he realises his eyes are open, and he’s about to see if he’s cold, or boiling, or crying, or hungover.

When he drives, the undulating tarmac, roadside rocks, and shapes in the tree trunks, those things illuminated in the near-distance, they morph into your jawline or lips, your nose and lower profile, and the dark space above it, just above his line of sight as he pointlessly steers himself around, that’s where your eyes wait, patient and punishing, pulling on him like they always did, waiting for him to look into the black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley made you a Knight of Hell. You made yourself its King. All because of Dean Winchester. How is Dean Winchester, by the way…?

During the 6 weeks after you’ve gone the Winchesters hunt crocotta, rakshasa, and a lamia.  That’s all the activity there is. Sam makes the connection at some point: none of the lingual monsters will touch them.  What they’re left with are monsters that don’t consort with demons, don’t connive and don’t conspire.  Sam takes it as a relief and gives thanks that they haven’t met a baku yet.

Dean takes is as an insult (“Can’t she sacrifice her precious minions? Just rabid vermin for us…”)  Frustrated and desolate, he seeks out a hunt alone, and hits a patch of luck:  Four vampires, playing with their food around a pool table.  He has three shots at the bar, hoping it’ll add to his air of harmlessness but has to hop-to when they recognise him and hightail it outta there.  He chases them down, tackles one at the end of the buildings, by open fields, and the others turn to fight.

“Fuck him,” one of them spits.  They look at their comrade.  “Fuck him!  He’s only a fucking human!  She can get over it.”

Dean stares at the guy, mind twisting on itself to play dumb or indifferent and yet still think of words that’ll make the vampire say more.

They attack, and Dean fights.  It’s fast and close, in bad light.  

For a long time it’s three against one.  Dean can’t seem to get any of them down.  Then somehow it’s two against him, with noise of a fight behind Dean where he can’t afford to look; then two against two and he thinks he recognises your height; soon him against the last while he fumes with indignation; and now Dean against you - blades dropped, grappling and tight, lips pinched, frowning and confused, full of blows that thump with honesty and heat.  

Like you’ve never sparred before, you and Dean fight, scuffling and grunting over the gravel, surrounded by fallen headless bodies.  You can feel him fight with himself too.  Guilt, anger, fear, envy, remorse, love, denial, each hit synonymous with _Dean Winchester_ and what he is now.

It’s been almost fifteen years, in your world, of going without, tasting from a distance, and you’ve been itching hot, stung, always for him.  The occasional visits topside - silent spying, tracking pouches on the Impala, astral projections - it’s all helped you mark time and feed your lust.  However, substitution was a line you couldn’t quite cross, no matter how needy you’d been, and that celibacy had irritated your subjects to the point of spit and attack.  Turns out you are a very patient woman.

The fight moves around the space.  Dean’s grunts start to sound like feelings, and so much of you wants to throw him down and take, claim, _insist_ , and prove that you have feelings too.  (Only stronger with time, distilled by carnal clarity, but would he consider them counterfeit in your dark heart?) But if he spurned you… No, you’re too proud to risk it.

You don’t detect a demon’s trap on him, so you let him get you.  You enjoy his heat and mass and wait to see that beautiful human face close in on you with whatever scalding emotion comes up on the spinner in the moment.  You had wondered if his humanity, up close, would grate against you, after all your time, but it really doesn’t, and he has just enough of something else to make you crave him more than ever.

Finally, when his forearm’s across your chest, and the cinderblock’s at your back, Dean quivers at you, determined not to lose it, with no idea of how to do that.  He misses you, all of what you were, and has spent 6 weeks telling himself there’s surely nothing left.

But Dean’s here now, making you feel languid, strong enough to remind you of how he once protected you, that quaint of false safety.  His soul crackles like water in hot oil and his simple-man heat barrells against you, drawn into your nose and pouring down your throat, and you with your constant, sterile breath, you’ve never had an appetite for anything but him.  Him and violence.   All this time.  And now you can smell him truly, otherly and tempting, like sea salt and grass water and sky alive.

You could give him a softer touch, invite him to lean into your palm or your lips, but suspect, if your calculations serve, he’s probably still feeling the slap of loss.  

He wouldn’t trust it anyway, so you give him something to push against instead.

“Would you like to feel how strong you were?”

You measure the moments with his thumping heart, since it’s the one that beats, memorising eyelashes and outlines that curl at your mean tease.  It’s amazing how warmth can be different when it’s soft and calling.

Dean pushes off, backs away, and looks like he’d pace if he had the status to be pissed.  He _is_ pissed.  You’ve been gone, for weeks, with barely a word.  He’s puffed with tension. “You been busy or somethin’?”

“Yep.”

“Bein’ the King of Hell.”  Because that’s your job now, right?

“Pretty much.”

“And how’s that workin’ out for you?”

Okay then.  

You lick your lips and look around, up here where the cold is wet and roofless, and the dark is quiet and open.  You can still hear what’s going on below, but the distance is nice.

“No one else has shown up worthy, as yet,” you explain.  “I’m just keeping things in check until a viable candidate comes forward.”

Dean can hardly believe his ears, but he keeps that to himself.  “You’re one of the most powerful beings in existence right now, but you don’t want it?”

You shrug a cheek thoughtfully.  “It’s not that interesting… I mean, it’s easy.  And I did _earn_ it,” you remind him, noting how his chest drops and tightens at your dark tone, fists clenching.  He’s beginning to think he’ll never be ready to see you so stained.  “But you know how I loathe a job half-assed.”

He did not expect this.  “You really care who rules?”

“I’m a Knight; that’s my realm.  Of course I fucking care who rules.”

“ _I_ didn’t-”

“I _know,_ and it was a mess, but that king was embedded and you were rebellious.  This is different.”

Dean scoffs, starts mounting a defence for the way he was-

“Look,” you move away from the wall a few steps and take a kind approach with your favourite human.  “It works.  I don’t want to follow anyone else, you don’t want a random in the job, things are running fine.”

“‘Running’? There’re still monsters running around up here,” he swizzles his finger in the air to indicate.  “You’re not keeping a lid on that.”

You think, if you peer at him long enough, he’ll remember how you popped up here to save his ass, twice now.  Not to mention the change in predators.  The way he swivels his jaw and shifts his weight suggests he might, or maybe he’s remembering that this has got to be one of the tamest iterations of a Knight ever shown and that he should shut the fuck up before it blows over.

“It’s kind of fitting actually,” you say, walking so you’re between him and the light, shading yourself and illuminating him.  “They hate me.” You lean back in emphasis. “Like, rrrrreaally hate me.”

That’s a little bit you, a bit playful, the way you used to stir the baddie when you fought together.  He purses his lips, not relaxing, resisting manipulation.

“Not _all_ of them, but still. I’m not a proper demon see.  I didn’t go through centuries of torture to become this monster, I don’t deserve the ‘honour’.” You air quote the ridiculous notion.

In spite of himself, Dean starts to soften while you talk like you once did.  He looks at the bodies and gravel so he doesn’t have to see you so different.  (So _healthy_ , by the way - fit and relaxed and wickedly beautiful in a way that makes him think of hard sour candy).  But your voice sounds so the same.  If he looks into the darker shadows he can pretend his eyes are closed and you’re both just… outside, talking.

“Just recently, on my 14th anniversary in fact, I reminded them that, by the way, it’s _hell._  The Hell.  And hell for them too.  It’s still supposed to suck.  It’s not a fucking meritocracy.  Dipshits.”

“So you got some sort of moral compass that’s annoying the crap out of them then?”  He crosses his arms for the chat, trying to disguise his hope.

“Sort of. I have rules, and status.  I try to be fair and consistent, but the odd random act doesn’t go astray.  It’s necessary, to be honest.  You know how the Mark demands.  But the ruling…” You sigh. “It’s annoying, boring.”

“You seem so harmless,” he says. _No offence._

“I do,” you smile.  “It’s quite the asset.”

“I know. I mean, you’re… darker, but hardly evil-looking.”  He’ll probably tell himself that a few more times by Christmas.  He misses you. So much.

“Really?” you pout.  “But I’m parting my hair on the right now.  Should I wear burgundy?”

He blinks a few times, almost agape.  “Please don’t troll on my knighthood.”

You grin and Dean’s lips curve softly, because it’s like you, who you were, being a cheeky shit, and he slips to sadness again before he can stop himself.  He clears his throat and dares to bring it up.  “We miss you, Y/N, you know…  We can still fix this.”

That’s not what you wanted to hear.  It makes you clench your jaw and heat flares behind your ears.

“Took you long enough to bring that up,” you say bitingly.  “See you round, Lover.”

Your sharp bitterness prickles into his chest and strikes up his gut.  He stares at the spot after you’re gone, working his lips tightly enough to manage himself and not get emotional.  He’d hoped so hard to see you again and he’s gone and fucked it up with the wrong words at the wrong time, or something.  He should’ve kept his head shut and just enjoyed a bit of good fortune.


End file.
